


side to side

by lantur



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Hair Kink, Pre-Canon, Sexual Tension, lots of thirst, thirst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 10:34:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24848365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lantur/pseuds/lantur
Summary: Breda and Havoc decide that Roy and Riza should improve their hand-to-hand combat skills.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 52
Kudos: 179





	side to side

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Side to Side," by Ariana Grande.

It’s nineteen-hundred hours when the phone rings, shattering the silence of the office. Roy looks up from Falman’s latest intelligence report, startled despite himself. It’s Hawkeye’s line, not his, and she answers the phone just after the first ring.

“Hawkeye.” Riza doesn’t look up from her paperwork. Roy returns to the report, half-listening in on the conversation, just because it’s late and he’s bored. She is terse as she usually is on the phone - _I can. Where? You’re welcome -_ before hanging up without a goodbye. 

Riza stands up and walks to Havoc’s desk. She scans the mess, and then picks up a thick manila folder. 

“Don’t tell me Havoc has you reviewing his reports now.” Roy tosses Falman’s report aside and leans back in his chair. “You won’t have the time to look over mine anymore.”

Riza grimaces. “Hardly. No, he just forgot this, and he wanted to edit it tonight. He asked if I’d drop it off with him.”

Roy stops mid-stretch. “Doesn’t Havoc live quite far from you?” It’s stupid to ask. Like he doesn’t have all of his subordinates’ addresses memorized. Like Riza doesn’t _know_ that he knows Havoc lives on the other side of the city from her. 

Riza raises an eyebrow, but lets the question (and the other, implied question) pass. “He’s not at home, Colonel. He and Breda are at the Cellar. It’s just a few blocks from my place.” 

“The combat center?” Roy taps his fingers on the desk, intrigued. “Hughes and I have been planning to give it a try, but we’ve never gotten around to it.” 

“I stopped in there once, when it opened, just to check it out.” Riza picks up her bag, tucks the folder into it, and pulls her coat on. “I can see why others find it appealing, but it didn’t match my interests.”

“Of course it didn’t. I doubt there’s a single firearm to be found there.” Roy can’t help but smile, and he stands up, grabbing his own coat. “I’ll drive you.” Riza looks like she’s gearing up for a polite refusal, and he gives her his most charming smile. “I insist, Lieutenant.”

Riza rolls her eyes, but falls into step beside him. “You’ll take any excuse to leave early and abandon your paperwork, sir.”

“It’s nineteen-hundred hours. I don’t know how you think that’s _early._ ”

“I’m factoring in the hour late that you came in, the hour-long nap that you took after lunch, and the hour that you spent reorganizing your desk drawers instead of working on any of the items in your inbox,” Riza points out, with equal asperity. Roy suddenly becomes rather absorbed in trying to find his car keys amongst the several items in his coat pockets. 

-

The Cellar is surprisingly crowded for an evening on a work night. Roy takes their surroundings in with a glance as they enter. It’s a large space - a former warehouse, from the looks of it. Large, smudged mirrors line all four walls, along with countless racks of weights. Battered heavy bags hang from chains and hooks on the ceiling, and there are three separate sparring rings set up in the remaining space. Each ring is occupied, with small crowds of spectators lining the barriers. Every couple of moments, he hears the _thud_ of gloved fists colliding with the leather punching bags, and the rattle of the chains. 

“I don’t see Breda or Havoc.” Roy narrows his eyes at a tall man who had stopped mid-bicep curl to eye his Lieutenant. Riza garners quite a few stares as she strides through the combat center, but she holds her head high, either not noticing or not caring. 

“Havoc said he rents a private sparring room. Forty-three.” Riza steps through the back doorway, leading him into a hallway even more dimly lit than the main combat center. Half of the doors are open and half are closed, but there’s not much of a sound barrier, and they can clearly hear the fighters’ grunts and cries of exertion. Roy catches glimpses of men sparring, ramming their fists into each others’ stomachs; wrestling them to the ground and trapping them there. He winces, one hand drifting to his coat pocket, where he holds his gloves. His combat style has its drawbacks, but it has its benefits, too.

They finally arrive at room forty-three. The door is closed, and Hawkeye knocks once and enters. The room is large but seems somewhat grimy, the floor covered almost from wall to wall with battered foam mats.

Havoc looks over briefly, from the center of the room. “Hey, close the door, you’re letting the air out--”

Breda’s fist comes flying in under his guard, and catches him in the ribs with a neat left hook. Havoc staggers back, throwing his arms up. “Not fair!”

Breda smirks. “What are you going to do about it, Jacqueline?” 

Havoc darts in, throwing a succession of punches. Breda evades them with surprising nimbleness, before grabbing Havoc by the arm and twisting his arm behind his back. Havoc slams his foot down on Breda’s, and when Breda’s grip slackens, Havoc charges at him, knocking him to the ground. 

Roy watches, impressed, as they begin to grapple. “I’ll bet you lunch tomorrow that Havoc comes out on top. He has half a foot on Breda.”

“I’ll take that bet, sir. Havoc might be taller, but Breda has the advantage on strength.”

Breda drags himself to his feet, victorious, in a matter of minutes. He holds a hand out to Havoc, pulling him up. Roy sighs. “Lobster roll from Blomgren’s, with extra pepper?”

Riza inclines her head a fraction of an inch and smiles.

Havoc and Breda make their way over to them, both out of breath, their hair damp with sweat. “Thanks, Hawkeye.” Havoc takes the folder she holds out to him and fans himself with it vigorously. “You’re the best.”

“And you’re the worst, Havoc,” Roy grouses. “You lost me a bet.” 

“No offense, Colonel, but it was your fault for betting on him.” Breda and Hawkeye exchange rather smug looks. 

“I won’t make that mistake again,” Roy says, ignoring Havoc’s indignant expression. “I didn’t know you two trained here. It’s quite a bit more run down than the Eastern Command training center.”

“Can’t do hand to hand at our training center.” Havoc picks up a towel hanging from a rack on the wall and scrubs it over his face and hair. “Me and Breda and a bunch of the others have been petitioning Grumman to change the policy for years.” 

“The policy is in place for good reason.” Hawkeye looks at Havoc and Breda. “Do you remember the amount of training accidents they had to deal with at the military academy? There was an infirmary on site there, and there isn’t one on the premises at Eastern Command.”

“Oh, yeah.” Breda downs half of his water bottle in one gulp, and Roy remembers that the three of them had been in the academy together. Breda and Havoc had been a year ahead of Hawkeye. “One dislocated shoulder every hour. At least. And Havoc and I saw this poor bastard break his arm once - bone went clean through the arm. One look at it and he passed out.” 

Roy grimaces, and Riza shakes her head. “How did your hand-to-hand classes go?” Havoc asks, eyeing him curiously. “I’ve never seen you fight without your alchemy.” 

Roy suppresses the memory of one embarrassing defeat after another at the hands of Hughes. Countless spars over their time in the academy, and he’d come out on top maybe twice. “Fine,” he says shortly. “They were fine.” 

“Ask Lieutenant Colonel Hughes,” Riza says, in an undertone, to the two Second Lieutenants. “He may have a different story to tell.” 

“Hawkeye!” Roy exclaims, feeling his face heat up, and Breda and Havoc both burst out laughing. 

“Don’t take it too personally.” Havoc punches him in the arm. “Not from Hawkeye, anyway.”

Roy fights the temptation to rub his arm. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, sir,” Hawkeye grits out. 

Havoc casually takes a step behind Breda. “Hawkeye could only hold her own in hand-to-hand with the other girls. She got her ass handed to her five ways from Sunday half the time that our classes did co-ed practice.” 

“Antagonizing the sniper?” Breda mutters. “Smart move.”

“I’m surprised to hear that, Hawkeye.” Roy regards his Lieutenant, taken aback. She’s so proficient with every weapon under the sun that he could never have imagined her combat skills didn’t extend to - well - everything. 

“What are you doing after this, Jean?” Riza asks, in a deliberately sweet tone she only uses with marks on undercover operations - or with him, on the phone, when she’s Elizabeth. “Maybe you and I should go to the range.” 

Havoc goes pale, and Roy coughs to mask a laugh. Breda rubs his chin, looking somewhat contemplative. “Now that I think of it, it’s not great that both of you aren’t good at hand-to-hand. Especially since you’re the two most likely to be in the field besides Havoc and I.”

“He’s right.” Havoc taps a finger against his forehead. “What are you going to do if you’re caught without your gloves? Or if they’re taken away, and Hawkeye’s not right next to you to toss you a backup pair? You’re not the best shot with your service weapon.”

Roy considers taking offense to the latter statement, but regrettably, it’s a fair point. He shrugs. “I’ll draw a transmutation circle. I carry a backup stick of charcoal for that purpose.”

“You may not always have the time to do that.” Breda nods toward the mat. “You saw how fast the fight unfolded between Havoc and I out there. There’d be no time for you to scratch your nose, let alone get distance from an assailant and draw a transmutation circle. And Hawkeye - I know you have your gun, and your backup gun, but what if you’re disarmed?”

Riza crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ve never been disarmed.”

“You could be, if you were forced to hand over your weapons for whatever reason. Or if you were knocked out first and taken to a secondary location. You ever find yourself without your guns, you’re going to need to know how to handle yourself.” Breda’s demeanor grows more serious. “I know it’s not the first choice for either of you, and you may never be great at it, but knowing how to at least hold your own in hand-to-hand could save your lives in a crisis.” 

Riza relents first. “You’re right.”

Roy nods his agreement, and his gaze lingers on his Lieutenant for a moment. Now that he thinks about it, it’s extra important for her. Armed, Hawkeye is one of the most dangerous people in Amestris. Unarmed, she’s just a woman, not an alchemist - not even with the freakish strength of Olivier Armstrong and the rest of her line. He doesn’t want to consider how easily Riza might be overpowered or harmed, without her guns to defend herself. “What do you propose for training?” he asks, running a hand through his hair. “I assume that re-enrolling in the academy to repeat a single class isn’t an option.”

Havoc jabs a finger between him and Hawkeye. “You’ve got a couple of inches and some weight on Hawkeye, so you’d be a good person for her to practice with. Hawkeye, focus on breaking out of holds and grappling, and work on your offense. Are you still good at dodging?”

“I’d like to think so.” Riza shifts from foot to foot, looking somewhat concerned. “But I haven’t practiced in a while.”

“Better late than never,” Breda says bracingly. 

“And once you’re done with Hawkeye, Colonel, I’ll train you,” Havoc says brightly. “Hawkeye, throw some punches at him, okay? See if he’s as good at dodging as you were.” 

“Hmm.” Roy considers the prospect. “I’d rather have Breda as my instructor.”

“You’re a terrible boss,” Havoc sulks.

“He wants to learn from the best.” Breda shrugs. “Who can blame him?” 

“It’s your vision of protection in action.” Havoc slings one arm around Hawkeye’s shoulders and the other around Breda’s. Both Riza and Breda look unimpressed. “You look out for Hawkeye, we look out for you.”

“It’s not quite my vision,” Roy says dryly. “That puts you two at the top of the pyramid.”

“And it puts me at the bottom.” Riza elbows Havoc in the side. 

Havoc winces, rubbing his ribs. “Fine, fine.” He pulls a key out of his pocket and tosses it over to Roy, who catches it smoothly. “Here’s the key to this place. Make a copy of it sometime tonight or tomorrow if you want, and I can get the original back.”

“Thanks, Havoc.”

Havoc turns, throwing them a salute. “Have fun, you two. Don’t get hurt too bad.”

The pair gathers up their gym bags and ambles toward the exit, bickering about whether they should go to Sattler’s or Maehl’s for drinks. Riza watches them go, a faint expression of amusement on her face, and Roy sighs. “They act like twelve-year-olds.”

“They act like you and Hughes.” 

Roy glowers at her, and then he shrugs off his black overcoat, tossing it over the rack where Havoc had thrown his towel. He feels Riza’s gaze on his back as he undoes the fastenings on his uniform coat. “What are you doing, Colonel?”

“What does it look like, Lieutenant? I’m preparing for your first lesson.”

“Now?” 

He hears the surprise in her voice, and he can’t help but smile. It’s a rare thing indeed to catch Hawkeye off guard. “As you always tell me, there’s no time like the present.” 

“You remember my advice now, and yet you conveniently forget it when it’s time for you to get some actual work done.” Riza joins him at the rack, removing her coat, and then taking off her uniform coat as well, hanging it beside his. Roy glances at her out of the corner of his eye. He’s seen his Lieutenant in civilian clothes often enough over the past years, but none of her outfits have made as much of an impression on him as this high-necked, simple black undershirt and the way the thin material clings to her figure. 

They make their way to the mats in the center of the room, and Roy rolls up his sleeves to the elbows, feeling a surge of mingled nerves and anticipation. It’s been a while since his last spar with Hughes. “Well,” he says. “Let’s get to it. I’ll try to subdue you, and you’ll try to fight me off.” 

They’re standing a mere few feet from each other. Riza regards him, unblinking, and Roy steps forward, grabbing her by the arm, pulling her towards him. He had expected her to try to wrest herself away. Instead, she stumbles forward - but rather than losing her balance and collapsing into him, she takes advantage of their proximity to sink an uppercut into his stomach. The hit is hard, much harder than he had expected, and Roy chokes, doubling over. Riza’s right hook catches him on the side of the head with equal impact, sending him staggering. 

“Lieutenant,” he croaks, lifting his hands for mercy. “What was that? I thought Havoc said you were hopeless.”

“That was seven years ago.” Riza shakes her hand out. “Rebecca and I have been watching fights for the past few years I don’t practice on the heavy bag like she does, but I guess I’ve picked up a few things.” 

Roy rubs the side of his head ruefully. “You certainly don’t pull any punches.”

“That was for going easy on me, Colonel.” Riza pins him with a steely gaze. “Come at me like you really mean it. You’re doing me a disservice if you don’t.” 

“Fine, Hawkeye. Whatever you want.” 

They circle each other, tense and wary. Roy lunges forward, faster than he had last time, but Riza evades the attack, moving swiftly to the side. He tries again, dodging an attempt to trip him and an open-handed strike to the throat, and when she throws another - she’s _quick_ \- he moves faster, grabbing her arm. Riza’s eyes widen in a moment of panic, and Roy repeats the move Breda had used on Havoc, twisting her arm behind her back. He kicks out the back of her calves, making her knees buckle under her, and she collapses to her knees on the mat with a sound of dismay. 

Roy briefly considers the wisdom of making a comment about this. Before he can, Riza dives forward in one sharp movement, nearly a roll, throwing him off balance. He stumbles against her shoulders and lurches forward ungracefully, landing on his side. Before he can right himself, Riza throws herself on top of him, rolling him over and pinning him down with her weight. She presses one forearm against the back of his neck, crushing his face against the mat. Her other elbow digs painfully into his shoulder blade. She’s breathing a little harder than usual, and it feels warm on the back of his neck, tickling the hair there. “I think you’ve been subdued, sir.”

“Nice,” Roy says, feeling somewhat dazed. Riza moves off of him, and he sits up, rubbing the back of his neck. “That was unexpected. You didn’t hurt the arm I pinned, pulling a move like that?” 

“Some shoulder pain is nothing compared to what could have happened if you - or a real opponent - took me all the way to the floor.” Riza’s cheeks are slightly flushed. “Besides, I could tell that you were about to say something stupid.”

“I would never.” Roy stands and offers a hand to her. “Again?”

Riza takes it, and he pulls her to her feet. “Again.”

They begin the dance, circling one another as they had before. “Imagine that there’s a gun lying right over there.” Roy nods toward the far right corner of the mat. “And you want to get to it.”

Riza is off like a shot before he’s even finished with the sentence. Their mile times had been within a second of each other during the last annual fitness test, something that they had argued about over drinks with the unit afterward. He had claimed that he should naturally have the advantage because of the couple of inches of height he had on her; Riza had claimed that she would have the natural advantage because she was lighter. 

Thankfully, today, Roy manages to catch her, colliding hard with her back, locking his arms around her in a bear hug, pinning her arms to her sides. “Not so fast, Hawkeye.” He can’t help but grin, smug over the fact that he’s finally outrun her. “Literally.”

Riza curses under her breath and almost falls on her face, but regains her balance. She struggles against his grip, to no avail, and then twists, trying to throw him over her shoulder like she had earlier. Roy plants his feet hard against the ground. “I’m not falling for that again.”

In lieu of a reply, Riza slams her foot back, kicking him in the shin. The kick sends a shooting pain up his leg, and she follows it up with a stomp to the same foot. The blows take him down, which is exactly what she had intended, but Roy keeps hold of her as he falls, pulling her down with him. They hit the mats hard, the impact driving the breath from their bodies in harsh gasps. Riza’s clip falls out of her hair, giving him a faceful of blonde locks. She wriggles free of him, and she’s almost on her feet when Roy reaches out, grabbing a handful of hair at the back of her neck and pulling her back down.

He’s careful not to be too forceful, but Riza still cries out in surprise, trying to wrench herself away. Roy tightens his grip a little, pulling her closer to him. “Someone could easily use this to throw you around however he wanted, Lieutenant. I could have grabbed you by the hair and dragged you back to me when you tried to run earlier.”

Riza twists around and looks at him, with some difficulty. Her hair is soft in his hand, as soft as it looks, as soft as he had imagined. Roy lets go belatedly, reluctantly, drawing back, feeling his face burn. “Sorry.”

“You should do it again.” Riza gropes for her fallen clip and then smoothes her fingers through her hair, easing the tangles from where he had pulled it. 

Roy tries not to stare. “What?”

“Do it again, next time you have the opportunity,” Riza repeats, a trace of impatience in her voice, as she tucks her hair into its customary updo. “You’re right. It can be used against me. I need to practice getting free of anyone who tries that.”

Roy swallows over his suddenly dry throat; flexes his fingers against the mat. “All right."

Riza stands, helping him up. “One more time for tonight?”

“As you wish, Lieutenant. This time, we’ll say that the weapon is behind me, so you have to go through me to get to it.” Roy smirks. “Hopefully this attempt goes better for you.”

They fight with no holds barred, inelegantly, dodging one another’s attacks as best as they can. Even when they go to the floor - Riza trips him, and he drags her down with him, as he’d done earlier - they’re more or less evenly matched. He might be stronger, but Riza is faster and more agile, hard to subdue, lashing out with kicks and well-placed strikes to his head and face when he tries. Roy finally manages to pin her to the ground, pinning her wrists on either side of her head with his hands. “Well, Hawkeye,” he gasps, leaning over his Lieutenant, his gaze lingering on her. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips slightly parted, her breath ragged with exertion. Her hair is half out of her clip, fetchingly disheveled. “It looks like I’ve come out on top again.”

The frustration and defiance melt from Riza’s expression, replaced with resignation. 

Then she headbutts him.

Roy yelps, his eyes watering, and he collapses on his back next to her. “Really?” he asks hoarsely. 

Riza rubs her forehead. “It was worth it, sir.” 

They lie there in comfortable silence for a while, trying to catch their breath. Roy closes his eyes for a moment, remembering the sensation of Riza in his arms, on top of him, beneath him. The skin of her arm, warm and soft underneath his hand when he had grabbed it. The sight of his hands curled around her wrists. His right hand tingles at the memory of fisting in her hair, pulling it back, pulling her head back, the line of her exposed throat, and the way she had looked at him over her shoulder. 

“So,” Roy says, opening his eyes, and he tries to sound casual. “When are we doing this again?”

“Monday night?” Riza sits up and rolls her shoulders. Her face is still pink, and he wonders how far down that blush extends. “If Havoc and Breda aren’t going to be in, that is.” 

“Works for me.” Roy pushes himself up from the mat, rubbing the sore spot on his own forehead, and holds a hand out to her. 

Riza takes it, and he pulls her to her feet. He lets go a beat too late, the same mistake he’d made with her hair, and she glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “There’s something that might be helpful for us to do before our next training session.”

“What?” Roy rubs his shoulder blade where she had dug her elbow into it earlier, wincing. “Take an ice bath?”

“There’s a fight tomorrow night at the stadium. Doors open at twenty-one hundred hours, and the fight starts at twenty-two. I think we could both learn something from observing it.” Riza folds up her uniform coat and tucks it into her shoulder bag, shrugging her cream-colored utility coat on over her black undershirt. She meets his gaze. “We wouldn’t go together, of course,” she says, matter-of-factly. “I’m going with Rebecca.”

“Right. Of course. I’m sure Havoc and Breda would be interested, considering…” Roy waves his hand vaguely at their surroundings, as they make their way out of room forty-three, locking it behind them. “That they like all of this. Falman and Fuery might join too, just for the novelty of it.”

Riza nods, and she hesitates before speaking. “You may want to dress down a little bit tomorrow night, sir. It’s not exactly an occasion that warrants a three-piece suit.”

Roy mulls it over, unconvinced. “We’ll see.”

The main combat center is quite a bit emptier at this hour, and the night is cool. Roy breathes in, savoring the fresh air after so long spent breathing in the stale scent of the sparring mats. He bites down the question he wants to ask; the question he would ask in an instant, if Riza weren’t his subordinate. _Do you want to come over for dinner? We can order takeout, and while we wait for it to arrive, I can take you into my room, and--_

“Can I drive you home, Hawkeye?” Roy asks, instead. 

“I’m just a few blocks away, Colonel. I can walk.” Riza lets her hair out of its clip, tousling it somewhat absentmindedly. The strands are damp with sweat. “Have a good night.” 

Roy leans against the passenger side of his car and watches her go. 

-

He lets himself back into his dark, empty apartment, flicks the lights on, and checks the refrigerator. It’s empty save for a single carton of Xingese takeout, leftover from earlier in the week, but it’ll do. Roy pours himself a large glass of water, drains it in a few gulps, and makes his way to the bathroom.

The water is blissfully hot on his skin, soothing his aching muscles. There are already bruises forming on his shin and his foot, and Roy examines them ruefully. He thinks about whether he still has some of the bruise salve he had bought a few months ago. He thinks about what he should wear tomorrow. He tries not to think about how warm Riza’s body had been, right up against his, the feel of her breasts pressing against his chest in that thin black shirt - _god,_ he loves that shirt. He tries not to think of Riza’s hips underneath his when he’d been on top of her, the line of her shoulders when she’d been on top of him, the way the muscles in her arms had stood out when she pressed his shoulders into the ground, before trying to get her hands around his neck. The way her chest had risen and fallen with her ragged breaths. 

More than anything else, Roy tries not to think of pulling Riza’s hair. He tries not to think of the moment that she had told him _you should do it again._ (and _oh,_ he wants to do it again, so badly that it hurts.)

He turns the shower dial from hot to cold.

-

Roy reports to work the next morning with a stiff neck and an ache in his shoulder blade that doesn’t go away no matter how often he rolls his shoulder. 

Riza reports to work with a slight limp. She gently brushes off Falman and Fuery’s questions of whether she’s all right. “I’m fine.” She sinks into her chair. “I just had a strenuous workout last night.”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Fuery says sincerely, and Falman nods his agreement. 

Meanwhile, Havoc raises his eyebrows suggestively, throwing a glance at Roy. Roy deliberately takes his gloves out of his pocket, pulling them on, without averting his gaze from Havoc. The Second Lieutenant gulps and looks away, only to make eye contact with Riza, who has fixed him with the most poisonous expression that Roy has ever seen. Havoc sinks down into a slouch and doesn’t look up from his paperwork for the next hour. 

-

Saudek Stadium fills up quickly when its doors open at twenty-one hundred hours. Banners hung from the walls advertise the fight between Elias Brooks and Samuel Geller - _Brooks vs. Geller, Middleweight Bout._ Neither name is familiar to Roy, but Breda and Havoc (and, surprisingly, Falman) spent the entire thirty minutes that they stood in line debating over the merits of Brooks versus Geller, while he and Fuery had listened in confusion. 

He and Havoc had charmed the ladies at the box office into giving them five front-row tickets, right up against the ring. The five of them settle into the premium seats, all of them save for Falman holding cold beers from the concession stand. “Hawkeye and Catalina are going to be here too, right?” Havoc asks, scanning the crowd. “I wonder where they’ll end up. It’s packed tonight.”

“On the other side of your row.” 

Roy turns, startled, and Havoc whirls around, nearly spilling his beer. Riza gives them a small smile, and Rebecca Catalina dissolves into laughter, lifting her hand to _click_ at an imaginary camera, capturing Havoc’s reaction.

“How did you get those seats?” Falman furrows his brow. “The lady at the front told us that the rest of our row was blocked.” 

“They were,” Catalina replies cheerfully. “Blocked for Riza and I.”

Breda and Havoc’s faces are identical pictures of confusion. “But how--”

Catalina takes a sip of her beer. “We have connections.” 

Roy raises an eyebrow at the mysterious reply. “Lieutenant,” he greets, nodding at Hawkeye. She’s wearing an outfit he’s never seen before. A short, clingy black dress that makes her legs look a mile long, a fitted black leather jacket over it. Her hair is loose over her shoulders. Roy spares a moment to hope that this won’t be a problem for him, and he knows that it will be.

“Colonel,” Riza replies, in her even, polite tone. She never wears lipstick unless she’s on an undercover mission with him, but she’s wearing some tonight - the shade of red that he likes best.

They all take their seats, chatting comfortably, passing the enormous bucket of popcorn that Roy had purchased back and forth. Thirty minutes before the fight starts, Breda and Havoc both catch sight of something and freeze in the middle of their conversation. “What is it?” Roy asks, looking up from his conversation with Falman and Fuery.

Breda jerks his chin over toward the other side of the row. “It’s _him_ ,” he whispers.

“He’s coming over here!” Havoc looks like he’s close to fainting.

Roy, Falman, and Fuery turn to see a tall, brown-haired man making their way to their row. He’s very tall, even taller than Havoc and Falman, with sharp, hawklike features, and a muscular build clearly evident underneath his long-sleeved top. Roy frowns. “Who is that?” 

“Elias Brooks.” Breda indicates the banner hung on the far wall. “Of Brooks vs. Geller.”

“Oh.” Roy sighs, and smooths his coat. “I assume he wants to meet me.”

But Elias Brooks stops in front of Rebecca and Riza, greeting them both with a smile, like old friends. “Theo sends his love, Becky. You’ll be happy to hear that he’s on his way here from New Optain now. With any luck, he’ll get to East by the time the fight’s over tonight.”

“That’s great!” Rebecca beams. “I can’t wait to see him.” 

Brooks turns to Riza and his sharp features seem to soften somewhat. “Hey, little bird.”

Roy has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep it back, the instinctive demand of _who the fuck are you, to give my Lieutenant a pet name--_ but, of all things, _little bird_? It’s so ludicrous, so ridiculous, that Roy almost laughs in anticipation of Hawkeye’s retort. 

Riza just rolls her eyes. “Elias,” she says, by way of greeting. Exasperation mingles with fondness in her voice, a tone that Roy has only ever heard when she talks to the unit or Rebecca. Or him. “Good luck out there tonight.”

Elias Brooks leans in and kisses Riza on the cheek. She allows it. 

And something in Roy’s brain short-circuits.

Brooks heads off with one last wave to Rebecca and Riza. Riza turns to face the unit, her expression resigned. 

“Hawkeye.” Havoc’s voice sounds strangled. “What the _fuck_.”

For once, Roy agrees with Havoc.

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.” Fuery looks between him and Riza, clearly somewhat confused. 

“Congratulations.” Falman smiles. “The papers say that he’s very successful.” 

Riza sighs, shifting in her seat. “Elias isn’t my boyfriend.”

“He’s her ex,” Rebecca supplies helpfully. 

Riza looks like she’s narrowly restraining herself from testing out some of her new hand-to-hand combat skills on Rebecca. “He’s a friend.”

She turns away from them, toward Rebecca, clearly unwilling to elaborate. They all exchange stunned glances. “It’s always the quiet ones,” Breda mumbles, shaking his head.

They lapse back into conversation until the fight starts. Roy listens his men talk, not quite taking any of it in. He watches the fight, overly conscious of Riza a seat away from him. He watches Elias Brooks - who has more than half a foot on him, and thirty pounds of muscle, probably, and a pronounced Southern accent - knock around his opponent. He thinks of Brooks’ muscles, and his height, and Riza’s arms around him, her legs wrapped around him, Brooks’ hand twining in the length of her hair, gently pulling it back, breathing _little bird_ into her ear as they--

Roy takes a deep breath and tries not to feel sick.

-

Roy drinks too much, at a bar after the fight, with Falman, Fuery, Breda, and Havoc. He drives down to Central on Saturday and visits Hughes and his aunt and sisters. He drives back to East City on Sunday and spends most of the day lying in bed with a book, only rising to go for a six-mile run.

By the time they all report to work on Monday, Roy is able to be perfectly professional with his Lieutenant (even when he thinks about the fact that she and Rebecca had slipped off after the fight - which Brooks had emerged from, victorious. _Theo’s here, so we’re getting drinks with him and Elias,_ Rebecca had said happily, waving at them, and then she and Riza had been gone, weaving through the crowd). 

He stops by Riza’s desk after lunch. “Practice tonight?” he asks. “Havoc and Breda aren’t using the room.”

Riza looks up at him. She’s been adjusting the collar of her uniform all day, absentmindedly pulling it closer around her neck, and it puts a knot in Roy’s chest every time he sees it. “Yes, sir.” 

-

They chat about work on their way to the Cellar after leaving the office, and as they strip out of their uniform coats. Riza gives him a sidelong glance as they hang their coats up. “That’s different for you.”

Roy looks down at his black short-sleeved undershirt, which matches hers. It’s stupid, but he’s gratified that she had even noticed the difference. “Yes, well. It seemed more appropriate for the occasion.”

They head to the center of the room. Their fights are harder tonight, grittier, feeling even more like a genuine struggle that neither of them is able to win. All of this is a consolation prize, the next best thing to getting what he really wants. He can’t take Riza home, peel off her black undershirt, wrap his hands around her neck, his thumbs tracing either side of her jaw, and kiss her until she forgets she ever knew another man’s name. He can’t fall into bed with Riza, press her into the mattress, pin her wrists on either side of her head just like he had the other night - or let her keep her hands free, to run her fingers through his hair or scratch her fingernails down his back. 

He can’t do any of that. But he can do this.

Roy savors the contact, the proximity, the excuse for them to put their hands all over each other, the excuse for them to be this close. Riza is close enough to kiss, nose-to-nose, chest-to-chest, her breath on his skin. It’s almost good enough. Her hands dig into him, twisting his arm behind his back, locking out the joint, or grabbing him by the throat. In exchange, he grabs her hair when her back is to him. “Get me off, Hawkeye,” Roy orders, and he nearly doesn’t recognize his own voice, lower and rougher than it usually sounds. 

They stop for the night after she does, sinking to their knees on the mat across from each other. Roy feels even more achy than he had last time. Riza’s breathing hard, her hair falling half out of her clip, and she looks too exhausted even to fix it. His shirt sticks to his back with sweat. It isn’t a calculated gesture, it isn’t deliberate, but he pulls it off, running the soft fabric through his hair.

Riza’s gaze lingers on him for just an instant. “It looks like I wore you out, Colonel.” 

Her voice is soft, matter-of-fact, and Roy laughs, short and sharp. “You did.” 

They stay like that for a few more minutes. “Wednesday?” Riza asks, finally. 

Roy looks up, meeting her eyes, and he’s taken aback by the quiet anticipation there. He nods. “Wednesday. Do you want me to take you home?”

Riza stands, offering him a hand up. She releases him quickly, as if his touch burns. “I’ll walk,” she says, turning away. “I need to cool off.”

-

Roy thinks about his Lieutenant when he gets home. He wonders if she does the same.

-

“How’s the hand-to-hand training going?” Breda asks them, over lunch the next day. 

They glance at each other for just a second, and then look away. Riza back to her newspaper, Roy to his drink. “Fine,” they say, at the same time. 

-

It’s a familiar routine, by now. Drive to the Cellar after work, make their way down the dimly lit hallway to room forty-three, set their things down, partially undress and hang their coats on the rack. Roy looks forward to it all day, tapping his fingers against his desk, sneaking glances at the clock. 

They take their customary places opposite each other on the mat. “I’m not going to go easy on you tonight, Hawkeye,” Roy warns. 

“Please don’t, sir.” Riza tilts her head to one side and then the other, stretching it, before looking back at him evenly. “I need to be prepared for Havoc’s test on Friday night, after all. Give me everything you have.”

“Oh, I will, Lieutenant.”

Roy follows through on the promise. These training sessions with Riza have been helpful, as had watching the fight at Saudek Stadium (as much as he hates to admit it.) He had never been much for hand-to-hand combat before, somewhat uncomfortable with the pure, rough physicality of it - such a contrast to alchemy - but this has helped him get over most of his aversion to it.

Riza puts up an admirable fight, the best she’s ever managed. She resists all of his attempts to knock her off balance or trip her up, nimbly dodging every kick aimed at her legs, while landing a few solid blows of her own. In the end, Roy uses the force of her own punch against her, pulling her toward him and down, shoving her to the ground. He tackles her before she can get up, caging her in with both arms on either side of her, trapping her legs with his. Riza actually snarls with frustration and fury, arching underneath him in an attempt to throw him off. Roy just presses against her harder, adrenaline and desire mingling in one intoxicating rush. “Come, Hawkeye,” he breathes, leaning close, his lips almost brushing her ear, and it’s a deliberate attempt to provoke her and a loss of control at the same time, reenacting part of what he’s dreamed of for so long. “Do it like you mean it.”

Riza’s eyes snap shut at the words, her chin lifting, exposing the perfect line of her neck, and her entire body shudders. She strikes out, fast as a snake, and grabs a handful of his hair, hard enough that it makes Roy’s eyes sting. She wrenches her grip to the side, slamming his face against the mat. 

They lie there, panting for breath, still half tangled together, for a few moments. Roy finally drags himself upright, feeling a little dazed. Riza is still on her back, her eyes closed, hair fanning out underneath her shoulders. Her cheeks are flushed red, lips slightly parted, and he’s never seen anything so beautiful. He almost reaches out and brushes her bangs from her face.

Riza finally opens her eyes. She stares at the ceiling, clearly unwilling to look at him, and Roy fights the temptation to lie down beside her and hold her in his arms; feel her curl up against him, limp and exhausted from their exertions. 

Roy places his hand close to hers instead, brushes the side of his hand gently against hers. After a moment, Riza echoes the gesture.

-

After work on Friday, their entire unit heads to the Cellar, Falman and Fuery intending to join Roy and Breda in spectating Riza’s match against Havoc. Riza and Havoc stretch and trash-talk each other at the center of the room, and Roy, Falman, and Fuery make themselves comfortable at the perimeter. 

Well, Falman and Fuery make themselves comfortable. Roy paces, calling out advice to his Lieutenant. “Elbow to the back of the neck, Hawkeye! Remember the throat punch! And stomp on his knee, if you can!”

Riza acknowledges his advice with a subtle eye-roll. 

Breda had found a plastic gun for the occasion, as a prop. He sets it out on the mat, several feet from Riza and Havoc. “Whoever gets the gun first wins,” he instructs. “Clear?”

Riza and Havoc salute Breda, and the Second Lieutenant looks over to him. “Colonel, want to count them down?”

Roy does, and Riza and Havoc collide with each other the second the _one_ leaves his lips. The fight is rapid and explosive, and he watches, heart in his throat. His Lieutenant has gotten good - good enough that she’d wipe the floor with him, if he were her opponent today, but Havoc is taller and stronger than he is, and Riza struggles against him. They topple to the floor, grappling furiously, and Roy can see Riza’s strength begin to flag with the effort of keeping Havoc at bay.

“Come on, Hawkeye!” Fuery yells suddenly. “Get to that gun before someone else takes it and shoots the Colonel!”

Riza digs her hands into the ground and drags herself away from Havoc, despite his grip on her legs, her arms shaking from the strain. And then she kicks Havoc square in the face.

Havoc howls, hand going to his nose. Riza pulls herself to her feet, dashes to the gun, and levels it at Havoc. Her hair had come down from its clip, cascading over her shoulders. Her face is flushed, and she’s trembling, but her grip on the gun is steady, her expression one of pure determination.

Roy realizes that he was wrong, a couple of nights ago. This is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Fuery cheers, and Breda and Falman start clapping. “Well, Lieutenant,” Roy calls, and he can’t hide his grin. “It looks like all you needed was the right motivation.” 

Riza sets the plastic gun down and gives him the briefest of looks, and then she rushes over to check on Havoc. 

-

They all go out for dinner and drinks, afterward. Roy listens with some apprehension to Havoc and Breda’s plans for his training, which will begin next week. Fuery and Falman exchange identical looks of misery when they’re roped into the same training plan. 

“To Hawkeye.” Havoc lifts his glass. There’s already an impressive bruise forming on his face. “Amestris’s most improved hand-to-hand combatant.”

Riza shrugs, rubbing her shoulder, and meets Roy’s gaze across the table. “I had a good instructor.”

“You should keep working on it,” Breda asks, around a mouthful of his sandwich. “Have to keep those skills sharp. Maybe consider getting a plastic knife as a prop, too.” 

“Good idea, Breda.” Roy decides to take the risk. He reaches his foot out, under the table, subtly, casually, and finds his Lieutenant’s, running his foot down the side of her leg. “Does Monday night work for you, Hawkeye?”

Riza nods, as stoic as ever. She rests her foot on top of his. “It does, Colonel.”

Roy takes a sip of his drink, and he can’t help but smile.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think I've ever written something so light on plot and angst, and heavy on thirst. :| Also I'm amused by the idea of Roy and Riza justifying what they do like: well this doesn't TECHNICALLY break the anti-fraternization laws because we aren't TECHNICALLY having sex ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Songs that inspired this fic were "Side to Side" by Ariana Grande and "Problem" by Natalia Kills. 
> 
> I hope that you enjoyed reading! I'd love to know what you think. :)


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